


Sunkist

by gogollescent



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, incest out the incest wazoo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2011-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:04:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some shortfic I wrote for the pairing; this will probably just be my dumping place for any contextless fragment of Dave/Rose I come up with, on my own or for a prompt, that I am too lazy to pursue. A few of these drabbles are at least vaguely rooted in canon. Many are not.</p><p>The title refers less to soda than it does to BORDERLINE CONCUPISCENT ACTIVITIES PERFORMED INSIDE THE GREEN SUN. This is hilarious. You will now laugh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunkist

No one will ever know how long you spent inside the sun. Even Dave doesn’t know, probably, how long you spent inside the sun; a god of time can measure anything except the moment of his own conception. But you died in the first long instant, consumed by plasma, your meat sublimely sublimated and  _gone;_  and then—

You woke. You smiled. 

You died again.

You die a thousand deaths, burning and burning, each resurrection more glittering and more numb: you can see nothing but the sleeting green, but you are very close, you know, breathing flame in and out of one another’s lungs. You think you are being pulled upwards, slowly, by each successive drag of life, but you have no way of discerning motion. For all you know you’ll be trapped like this forever. It’s almost funny. It  _is,_ funny, actually, and this time you die with a smile.

The next time you open your eyes and feel them start to melt, you lean forward, pushing through your own crumbling frame. You disintegrate against him, and when you reform your noses almost melt together, and— you kiss him. Your noses  _are_ melting together. He tastes like what everything else tastes like: the blood-green heart of a new star.

He clings to you, and you think he tastes glad. 


	2. Grimcat

If someone had asked him what he thought Rose would look like as a cat, he would probably have cited the hideous, fluffy white monstrosities endemic to James Bond novels and villainous laps. But in fact Rose was a sleek, smoke-grey thing, with a weird face and a tongue whose pink length spoke less of ‘fester’ than of ‘adorable butt-licking goodness’, and she did not respond well to being lapped.

“Nice job shitting on my preconceived notions,” said Dave, but Rose made no reply.

“How do you feel about ribbons?” said Dave.

Rose smiled. It would have been a smile if she’d been human, anyway, he was pretty sure. As a cat there was less in the way of gothmantic lipstick and more in the way of spiny teeth. Funny: in Terezi’s mouth horrordentition had an alien, mechanized look, like it might at any moment begin gnashing with or without its owner’s enthusiastic consent, but Rose’s fangs sprouted slim and warm from her cat gums, organic as the fronds of a carnivorous fern.


	3. An Alternate Universe In Which Godtier Outfits Involve A Notable Absence Of Shoes

Dave has unusually long toes: knuckly and pale. Rose wonders vaguely if her own appear as disproportionate to an external eye; dimensions are harder to process objectively when they belong to you, she’s always thought, although the way Jade carries herself, precisely and with absolute knowledge of where and how her body fits into the surrounding air, has sometimes made her question the generality of her experience.

“Aren’t your feet cold?” she says.

“Isn’t your heart cold?” says Dave. Then he smiles. Godhood, thinks Rose, has put him in a new mood, strange and sharp. She kind of likes the things it does to his mouth, thinks Rose.


	4. Getaway Driver

“I’ll drive,” said Rose, clipped and cool.

“No, pretty sure I’m gonna steer this motherfucker,” said Dave: less clipped but still, he was almost positive, cool.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Rose, moving toward the driver’s side door.

“We don’t have time for your driving,” said Dave. “Well, I _say_ driving...”

“You know I only do that out of respect for my elders.”

“What, veer into ditches?”

Rose smiled fleetingly. “My mother is an elder.”

Dave pressed a hand to his face. “That explains way more about your ticket history than I ever wanted to know.”

“So get in the car.”

“No, look, I know you think you can just switch on incompetence like you do bitchiness, or eldritch emanations, but I’m pretty sure that’s not actually how it works. It’s like riding a bicycle! Do it shittily often enough, and you’ll never remember how to do it right.”

“Your logic is thin and your analogies are unfortunately bloated. Get in the car.”

“I’ll get in the car, all right—”

The shovefight that ensued would have been brief had not Dave, on the verge of being toppled ass over proverbial teakettle, enterprisingly stuck his tongue in Rose’s mouth.

And that was how the Strider-Lalonde duo was bagged by Terezi Pyrope three miles from the border.


	5. Adventures in Flatland

Rose woke to the unexpected sensation of nakedness.

It wasn’t unwelcome: there was, as ever, a certain joy in knowing that the photograph of her mother on the wall could see her hot butt plainly, but had no way of commenting on its merits or deficits. It was, however, disconcerting. She was not accustomed to waking up in a condition different from the one she had gone to sleep in.

She sat up, surprise noodles metaphorically boiling behind her eyes.

Her question was preemptively answered, however, when Dave came in.

He was wearing her bathrobe. It clung flimsily to his thighs as he walked, Rose noted, and did not flatter his hips. The deep rose color of the silk did suit his complexion, though. More worrying was the way in which he was trying to strut.

“Hi,” she said.

Dave paused in the middle of theatrically arching one foot. “Sup.”

“Your hemlines,” said Rose.

“…My hemlines,” Dave agreed.

Rose took pity on him. “I like that you’re branching out from ‘leather jackets and barely-suppressed shame’,” she said. “But next time, ask me first, okay? I’ll find you something fitted. I think we could do a lot with a little artful diaphanous drapery. To create the illusion of volume, you know.”

The hope in his eyes, it must be said, warmed the cockles of her withered heart. And not until two hours later did he turn to her in their newly-unmade bed and say,

“Wait a minute, are you calling my ass flat?”


	6. That Guy With The Blog

Divided up by the unforgiving anime angles of his erstwhile lenses of choice, Rose’s face is unreadable; a sharp patchwork of black glass and pale skin. “Dave,” she says, throatily.

“Where the fuck did you find those,” he asks.

“Dave,” says Rose, coming closer, until he can smell the maple syrup on her breath. “Dave, I just want you to know…”

“What? What?”

“I think you’re really cool,” says Rose, in the hushed tones of a nun who just found out that the pussy she’s licking belongs to a saint.

She goes up on her tiptoes, then— presumably— realizes he’s shorter than her, and bends down, instead. Her face is close and huge and perfect.

Dave wakes up with a scream.

“Hfl?” mumbles Rose, next to him.

“Nothing,” says Dave automatically. Then he looks at her.

The shades gleam, in the gloom.

“ _What in god’s name—_ ”

Rose smiles, and rolls over, breathing the easy rhythms of a smug fuck’s sleep.


	7. Family Resemblance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "When the hair on the nape of Dave's neck grow long and curly, Rose has an idea. But in her lipstick and bathrobe, he does not look exactly like her. There are subtle difference, which make him look like her mother."

“You need a haircut,” says Rose.

“What a fucking shame that we didn’t think to bring scissors to the apocalypse!” says Dave.

“It is a shame,” Rose agrees. “There goes my dastardly plan to tie you to a chair and rape your unsuspecting scalp with my tiny knives. But I was actually aware of our cutting implement deficiency.”

“So?”

“So we need an alternate solution,” said Rose.

*

“You know,” he said, some time later, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, god.”

“Fuck you,” he said amiably. “I’ve been thinking…”

She uncapped the lipstick, and leaned in. “Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking maybe irony isn’t a good enough justification on its own for doing everything you tell me to do.”

“Hm,” said Rose, dragging the tip across his lower lip. “Tell me if you ever decide to pursue the thought.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” says Dave. The smear of cosmetic is stark against his pale mouth, and his eyes are wide and winedark in this light. Rose tries to crush the nagging sense of deja vu, and fails, her guilt cold as day-old alcohol in her stomach.

“Sit up straight,” she says, and he does, the bathrobe resettling on his shoulders. “You look like a ghost,” she tells him, and he doesn’t say anything; only looks at her, the slant of his mouth kind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "give me sickfic or give me death".

“I’m fine,” says Rose, for the third time that morning.

“Yeah,” says Dave, helping her up off the linoleum with a judicious hand on her arm and another at her waist. “I can tell.”

“You may take your sarcasm and—”

“Whoa there, honeypie, let’s not get forward,” says Dave. “It’s not even 10 and you’re propositioning both me and my intangibles? Shit’s bugnuts.”

“Please, just,” says Rose, “stop talking.”

He’s still holding her up, he realizes. That’s probably rude, although he doesn’t think that he’s entirely to blame given that she’s conditioned him to rely on her elbow as a sort of guiding indicator about when he’s being too touchy-feeling. Her elbows, though, are held loosely at her side, the skin there rough and reddening; and she is frowning at him like she’s forgotten something.

“Okay,” he says, coming to one of the swift and awesome conclusions for which he is well known, “bed now.”

“That’s what she said,” Rose observes.

“Jesus christ, what did they get you with, malaria?” says Dave, steering her toward the doorway of the kitchen. She acquiesces to his shuffle-shove routine after a moment’s nonverbal grumbling, which is the equivalent of ten-foot flaming letters on the wall spelling out “NO, IT’S NOT MALARIA, IT’S PROBABLY FUCKING LUPUS.”

“It’s never lupus,” says Rose, which is when he realizes that he said part of that out loud.

“You said you slept through my House marathon!” says Dave, too shocked to come up with a more cool and urbane response.

“Internet,” says Rose, “memes,” but her expression is distinctly shifty.

“We are going to talk about this, Lalonde,” says Dave, sternly.

Rose coughs, her whole body shaking, so close the tremor seems like a pain in his throat.

“We are going to talk about this when I figure out what the videogame cure for lupus is,” Dave amends. “C’mon.”

Once she’s safely ensconced in the bed, and weighed down under the tangle of blankets and grimoires that she usually creates of her own free will, he takes a moment to sit and sort of smooth her hair back ineffectually. Her eyes close, and open, and close.

“If anyone could get a disease that no one ever has,” he says, “it’s you.”

There is no answer.


End file.
